


Knight of Rot and Ruin

by glorifiedscapegoat



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Modern Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2020-03-27 16:11:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19016314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorifiedscapegoat/pseuds/glorifiedscapegoat
Summary: "Did you believe you might save him? Did you believe a wretch like you could save anyone?"When a faerie ritual goes horribly wrong, Shion is left to confront dark secrets about himself. Desperate for answers, he finds himself wandering deeper into the other world―a dark realm of courts and death―guided only by his intuition and a strange, silver-eyed boy he finds himself inexplicably drawn to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, I am proud to say I have finally posted the first chapter of the No.6 Faerie AU I have been plotting for the past year.
> 
> It’s been a bit of a rollercoaster. I had hoped to get the first chapter out last week, but things with work came up and kept me from finishing. On top of that, I second-guessed myself often and psyched myself out about posting any of my newer writing.
> 
> However, due to encouragement from friends and the super nice people I’ve met on the No.6 Discord, I finally feel I am able to post this first chapter and kick this story off!
> 
> A big thanks to Vox, Paula uwu, and glittercracker from the Discord. You’ve all been big inspirations and good support systems through this adventure, and I appreciate it.
> 
> The first chapter was supposed to be longer, but my beta and I felt it worked better in two smaller sections to full get the impact of the scenes. Thanks again, everyone, and I hope you all enjoy it!

The bakery had been closed for an hour.

          Shion swiped a damp cloth across the glass cases. Little pastries sat behind, wrapped in plastic to keep them safe another day. His mother had slaved away in the kitchens for the better part of the afternoon, crafting little scones and muffins for tomorrow’s display.

          Venturing behind the front counter and swiping away the smudge of children's fingerprints, Shion focused on the circles he made with his right hand. The scratch of his mother’s broom as she swept the back kitchen. The low buzz of the overhead bulb Shion was certain would go out sometime this week. The conflicting smell of cleaning chemicals and the buttery warmth of new pastries.

          He focused on the little things that kept him attached to _this_ world: the human world. Not the safest of worlds, to be certain―but better than the other one Shion knew about. The one he pretended not to see when he went outside the iron protection of the bakery walls. The world filled with teeth and blood and magic.

          "Almost finished?" Shion's mother stepped out from the kitchen. She always reminded Shion of the bakery itself—Kara. was warm and inviting, eternally gentle and wise beyond her years. She untied her crisp white apron from around her waist and folded it over her left arm. The purple handkerchief tucking her hair out of her face.

          “All done.” Shion tossed the cloth into a small bucket beside the trash can. Karan would take them home and wash them alongside the laundry. “I wrapped the pastries, too.”

          “Somewhere to be?” Karan laughed. “You usually wait for me help you.”

          Shion walked over to the coat rack, where he and his mother kept their jackets in the winter. His book bag hung from one of the hooks, and Shion pulled it down over his shoulder.

          “Safu and I have an assignment for Japanese Literature,” he explained. “We had plans to meet after the bakery closed.”

          “Oh, I see.” Karan squinted out the windows, their dark blue curtains pulled back slightly, and into the emptying streets. “It’s getting dark. Will you be all right?”

          Shion opened his mouth to tell her _yes_ —when something small bounced against the windows.

          Karan yelped at the sound, and Shion’s shoulders shot to his ears. “Oh!” Karan’s hand flew to her chest, her cheeks flushed with surprise. “Was that a bird?”

          Shion didn’t dare to look. “Probably?” His voice didn’t tremble the way he feared it would, and he was grateful. He couldn’t be nervous. Karan wouldn’t want him to walk to Safu’s if he seemed nervous. Truth be told, Shion didn’t _want_ to walk to Safu’s either. He would have preferred to ride in a vehicle, something safe and made entirely of iron—but his mother couldn’t afford a car, used or otherwise, and none of the train stations dropped off even remotely close to Safu’s neighborhood.

          He knew, in the pit of his soul, that a bird hadn’t crashed into the bakery window. If he looked over his shoulder, he would most likely see a glowing purple figure, no larger than his fist, shaking itself off and resuming flight. The smaller ones weren’t bright. This wasn’t the first time one had smashed into something.

          “Shion?” His mother’s warm brown eyes narrowed with worry. “You look a little pale. Are you feeling all right?”

          “I—I’m fine, Mom.” Shion plastered a smile on his face. “I, um, I’ve got to get to Safu’s. I’ll text you when I get there, OK?”

          Karan looked skeptical for a moment, but, thankfully, she simply gave Shion a kiss on the cheek and told him to be careful.

          “I will,” Shion promised.

          “Should I save dinner for you?” Karan asked, leaning against the door frame as Shion stepped out into the street. The tall lamps lining the sidewalks were beginning to turn on. The sky had transformed into a beautiful array of reds and purples. In a few minutes, the sky would go dark, and the silver stars would begin to pop up.

          Shion shook his head. “I’ll just eat at Safu’s. Her grandmother’s making dinner.”

          Bidding his mother a quick _goodbye_ , Shion sunk his teeth into his lip and began to walk down the street.

          _Don’t run_. He forced his hands to stop shaking. He kept his steps even and his head high even when he felt like running. Staying calm—or appearing so—was the only defense Shion had beyond the protection of iron walls.

          Karan couldn’t see what Shion saw. Her eyes had never caught the flash of large wings in the middle of the night, or the sprays of blood as a wolf tackled a little girl and bit her open. All of them inhuman in every possible way. All of them monsters who were so beautiful that people would do foolish things to please them.

          Shion would have avoided walking at night, if he could help it. Something about the absence of sunlight made the creatures in Kronos more active. Bolder. More prone to violence.

          _The Fair Folk were once creatures of the night_ , Shion remembered. Safu’s grandmother had told him that years ago, but Shion remembered it as well as his own name. Any knowledge of the Folk was better than nothing. Any information made him safer than he had been.

          The early-evening streets of Kronos weren’t vacant. People stepped in and out of shops, or lingered on their porches. None of them saw the silver wolf slinking through the shadows, visible one moment and then camouflaged the next. The old woman carrying grocery bags into her house didn’t spot the gargoyle napping on the hood of her car.

          Shion envied all of them. The Fair Folk might have been beautiful, but there was cruelty behind it. The Folk were not kind.

          Turning away from the creatures, Shion focused on getting to Safu’s house. He tucked away from a man in a business suit who nearly crashed into him. Shion murmured an apology that went ignored.

          Sometimes he wished he could tell the Fair Folk to leave him alone. Sometimes he wished there was a way to take the Sight from his eyes and toss it into the ocean.

          He knew it was an impossible dream. The Folk might have been able to take his Sight from him, if Shion were to ask—but Shion also knew that the faeries might take his eyes, too.

          Ever since he was a child, Shion had been taught of the cruelty of the Fair Folk. Safu’s grandmother had picked up on his gifts at an early age. She’d been kind enough to pull him into her world, filling him with the same knowledge and warnings she’d given her own granddaughter. _Never let the Folk know you have the power to see them_ , she’d instructed them both. _No matter what horrible things you’ve seen them do, remember that they will do worse to you, should they discover your secret_.

          And so Shion had averted his eyes and pretended to see nothing. He’d forced a smile on his face when a skeletal woman took a bird’s head in her bony fingers and crushed its skull. Living with the Sight was a game of eternal acting—but Shion wasn’t certain how much longer he could keep up the pretense.

          He’d just rounded the corner that would take him by the train station, when a low murmur washed through the small cluster of Folk lingering in the streets.

          Shion couldn’t help it. He turned his head, pretending to be drawn by an odd scent or the flash of a coin in the dirt. His gaze drifted briefly to the mouth of an alley—and then Shion spotted _him_ stepping out from the darkness.

          The faerie he saw again and again, in various spots around Kronos.

          He was devastating. He was only a bit taller than Shion, but he carried himself as if he towered above even the tallest of the fae. His long hair was dark as the midnight sky, but Shion had never seen it down. He usually kept it in a messy ponytail that would have looked good on a regular human. On him, it was striking—but not nearly as much as his eyes.

          _Silver_. Not a human shade, faded green or blue or a hodgepodge of the two, but the color of a thunderstorm. Clouds reflected in a sharpened blade. Shion had never seen eyes like this on any of the other fae creatures that lurked around Kronos. He felt like those eyes would cut him if he were to catch their gaze.

          If the boy had been human, Shion would have been drawn to him. He might have even tried to talk to him. The boy wasn't Shion's usual type—cold and distant in a way that made him untouchable, someone who reeked of trouble and held the entire world in the palm of his hand.

          The boy moved as if he were someone important. In the rare moments when Shion spotted him in the presence of other fae, they had given the boy a wide berth. Even the creatures that looked menacing treated the boy as if he was someone to fear.

          That terrified Shion, too. He might have thought the boy was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, but he didn't know if he wanted to know him. If it would be safe to know him.

          Whenever Shion saw the boy, he was bombarded with the scent of jasmine flowers and winter wind. He could hear the wind rustling through tree branches. If he closed his eyes, he could picture himself wandering through the woods in the dead of winter. Crisp white snow would fall all around him, and he would walk into the depths and never be seen or heard from again. It was so easy to imagine. A beautiful dream that blurred the line and threatened to become a reality.

          Shion walked a little faster, not exactly running. He never ran around the Folk. If he did, they would give chase. The Fair Folk enjoyed a good chase. It pleased them when their prey ran.

          A couple blocks down, Shion ducked into one of the small cafés tucked in the corner. He felt safer among the scents of coffee beans and vanilla sweet cream. Every time the streets were overrun with fae, Shion would hide in the café or in the supermarket, intermingling with other humans until the worst of the creatures had passed.

          There was a girl sitting in the back of the lobby. She was invisible to all the others, and Shion could tell in an instant that she wasn't human. Her ears formed into little furry points at the tips, and her long hair seemed to be made of ruby filaments. The dim overhead lamps caught in the jagged strands as she turned her head toward him.

          Shion stepped away from the girl and ducked into the line. He wasn't much of a coffee drinker, but he figured it would look suspicious if he didn't order something. Suspicious was never good when it came to the Folk. It attracted their attention, and that was exactly what Shion wanted to avoid. He scanned the menu for something he might enjoy.

          And then the silver-eyed boy walked into the café—still glamoured, still invisible to all the humans aside from Shion—and headed straight toward the fae girl.

          Shion swallowed a lump in his throat. The Folk walked past him on a daily basis, invisible and impossible to hear unless they willed it. The particularly strong ones could weave glamours to hide in plain sight. Shion had never seen a member of the Folk create a human glamour. He didn't ever want to. The idea that any of the people surrounding him could be fae was almost as frightening as what could happen if one of them discovered that Shion could see them without their glamours.

          The boy marched to the table. The girl lifted her head, spotted him, and her eyes went wide. She bared her teeth—sharp and serrated, like a shark's—and whispered, "Nezumi."

          Her voice was as jagged as her teeth, and the name stumbled over her tongue. Shion's heart caught in his throat. _Nezumi_. The name flowed through his head like dandelion fluff on the wind, and Shion imagined it would taste strange on his lips. _Nezumi_.

          The boy pulled back the chair opposite her and dropped into it. Shion looked around to see if any of the other human patrons had noticed that the chair had been yanked back by invisible hands.

          No one seemed to notice much of anything. Not the couple closest to the window who seemed on the verge on an obvious breakup. Not the barista watching Shion with a disinterested smile, waiting for him to hurry up and order. Not the young mother desperately trying to corral her unruly toddlers. No one noticed the two creatures sitting in their midst.

          Shion found himself wondering, not for the first time, what the silver-eyed boy would look like as a human. His hair would darken to a dull black, or perhaps a steely blue that appeared gray in the sunlight. His eyes would be more difficult to hide. Shion couldn’t think of a color that would suit him better than his own sharp silver, but silver was not a normal color. Shion tried to picture him with dark blue or brown irises, but he didn’t like the thought.

          “He sent you, didn’t he?” The girl’s gravely little voice pierced through the low hum of conversation in the café. “The King?”

          Shion’s stomach hit the floor. The silver-eyed boy served a king. _That’s not good_. Safu’s grandmother had told him countless stories of faerie courts. Reigning over them all were two large kingdoms: Seelie and Unseelie. Light and Dark. Day and Night. There were so many stories, Shion didn’t know which of them were true—and he didn’t have a means, or a desire, to find out.

          Only a court as large as the Seelie or Unseelie would have a king. Shion didn’t want to think what it meant that court fae were wandering through Kronos. He needed to put distance between himself and the two creatures sitting in the café with him.

          “He’s pretty pissed at you,” Nezumi replied, and Shion’s heart fluttered. His melodic voice pierced through the air like shattered glass. Shion could easily imagine falling asleep to that voice. Could imagine listening to it for centuries. _Dangerous_ , he thought, forcing his gaze to drift around the café, as if he were looking at the decorations rather than eavesdropping on the nearby conversation.

          “It’s not a crime to abandon a court,” the girl replied. Her voice trembled at the edges. “We do it all the time, you know.”

          “Your intentions were to leave for the Seelie Court,” Nezumi said. “ _That’s_ rather suspicious.”

          The little bell above the door jangled as a woman in a black jacket stepped inside. Shion stepped aside and let her take his place in line, pretending to still be mulling over the menu.

          “There’s nothing to worry about,” the girl assured. Shion watched her from the corner of his eye. The edges of her red hair glinted in the dim light. She was smaller than Nezumi—smaller and more colorful. She wore a faded copper dress that looked as if it belonged in the past. “My intentions to leave were—or rather, there’s no harm in letting me go. I’m not a threat, Nezumi. _You have my word_.”

          The Fair Folk were incapable of lying. Shion wasn’t foolish enough to think that meant he was safe. Safu’s grandmother had warned him that faeries could manipulate the truth. Bend it until it snapped on its own.

          Even so, Shion thought a faerie’s word might be as good as any promise. He didn’t know what harm it could do to let the girl switch courts—didn’t see how she could be a threat to a faerie king—but from the look that crossed Nezumi’s face, Shion had a sinking feeling that the girl’s word wasn’t enough.

          The girl seemed to have the same opinion. “Please.” Her big eyes filled with tears. They were filthy and gray, dripping down her cheeks and leaving tracks of silt in their wake. “Just let me go. You know—you know better than anyone what a monster he is.”

          “I do,” Nezumi replied.

          The faerie girl’s shoulders relaxed. At one of the tables, the woman with her two toddlers dropped her purse on the ground. The contents spilled out on the ground. A blue compact mirror rolled out and struck the edge of Nezumi’s black boot. “Shit,” the woman muttered to herself. She rose from the table, stomped over, and snatched her compact from the floor. She didn’t notice Nezumi sitting there. Nezumi didn’t look up at her as she walked away.

          “I do know what a monster he is,” Nezumi echoed. His silver eyes flickered to the window. Shion followed his gaze outside. He spotted a few faeries in the streets. More than half of them seemed to linger by the café door, never venturing inside. “But they’re watching us.”

          The chair screeched across the tile as the faerie girl jumped from the table.

          She turned—but Nezumi was faster.

          Something silver glinted from his side. Shion watched in abstract horror as Nezumi drove his arm forward, his fist connecting between the girl’s exposed shoulder blades.

          Blood sprayed from her open mouth. Splattered in an arch across the glass. She tripped over one of the empty tables and crashed to the ground. Her skull bounced against the leg of a nearby chair. Its human occupant glanced over at the sensation of his seat being jostled, but, seeing nothing, turned back to chatting with his companion.

          Nezumi flicked his wrist. Blood whipped through the air, sliding from the edge of a silver blade. He slid it back into a small sheath at his side.

          Shion didn’t watch. He stared dead ahead. Stared at the wall as Nezumi shoved his chair back, rose to his feet, and stalked out of the café without looking back.

          The smell of jasmine went with him.

          There was nothing left but the overpowering stench of copper.

          Shion exhaled, his breath shuddering out of him.

          “Sir?” The barista tapped her index finger against the counter. She had an impatient smile on her face. “Sir, are you ready to order?”

          The girl's corpse lay sprawled on the tiles. One of the toddlers laughed and sprinted by her outstretched fingers.

          “No,” Shion said. His voice sounded thousands of miles away. His body had gone cold, all the warmth bleeding out on the floor alongside the faerie girl’s pale blood. “No, I—I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m going to order after all.”

**⁂**

Nezumi stood on the rotten-wood porch of a broken down house. He watched the silent figures in the weed-saturated gardens move swiftly as shadows. The humans passing on the street sensed their presence, despite not being able to see them, and avoided the yard altogether.

          With the glamour intact, it looked like a junkyard. An abandoned house whose owners had left it decades in the past. Beyond it, the rundown house looked even more foreboding. The broken window shutters crafted narrowed, judgmental eyes. The broken beams of the porch yawned like a mouth filled with sharp teeth. The staircase made for a convincing tongue. The mouth of a great beast whose stomach held a world of darkness and misery.

          At Nezumi’s back, cars zipped down the street. The sound of tires crunching over gravel was drowned out by the distant screaming beneath the mountain. The run-down house was just an entrance leading to a deep underground tunnel that twisted through the forests, opening up into the heart of a mountain the men and women of Kronos believed to be cursed.

          The stench of rotten flesh, grave soil, and the almost tangible chill hovering around the entrance of the Unseelie Court made it difficult to breathe.

          _Home sweet home_ , Nezumi thought. It had never felt like home. Then again, the Unseelie King had never felt like much of a father. Blood only ran so deep in the world of Faerie—and it meant even less in the Unseelie Court.

          Inside the heart of the Court itself, the air made Nezumi’s entire body ache. He supposed he should have been lucky he could survive as long as he did beneath the mountain, surrounded by the rotten _mana_ that sapped his strength.

          As a dark elf, Nezumi had both light and dark mana coursing through his veins. He could survive without sunlight and fresh air for weeks, but even he had a breaking point. He couldn’t live in the shadows forever. The King was a creature born of the darkness, commanding shadows with a flick of the wrist. He could send Nezumi to his knees with nothing more than a simple glance.

          Bracing himself, Nezumi reached for the door handle.

          The Unseelie King flung it open before he made contact. _He must’ve been waiting for me_ , thought Nezumi. In his free hand, the King held a goblet filled with a thick red wine that stank of salt and rotten strawberries. _Blood_. Nezumi wondered whose blood might have been unfortunate enough to grace the King’s goblet tonight, but decided not to dwell on it. Dressed in a black robe, long hair piled on top of his head in the tragic mockery of a crown, the Unseelie King leaned forward.

          “There you are,” he remarked.

          He looked deceptively plain—by the King’s usual standards. His feathered wings were freed of the iron cords typically wrapped around them. Through the ruined black feathers, Nezumi could see the deep burn marks embedded in the flesh. The King’s throat, wrists, and waist were unadorned by jewelry or the bones of his victims. His lips and eyes were unmarred by decorative paint.

          Despite that, the Unseelie King was beautiful. Nezumi hated to admit it, but there was something about the smooth lines of the King’s face, the elegant white column of his throat, and the inhuman color of his black eyes that made mortals crawl on the dirt for a chance to please him.

          The King held the goblet beneath Nezumi’s nose. Inside, bits of flesh and fruit pulp battled for a spot on the surface. Nezumi wondered if the King had bled his victim straight into the cup.

          “It’s fresh,” said the King, waggling the goblet and sloshing the wine. “Care for a taste?”

          Ignoring him, Nezumi ducked beneath his arm and walked into the room.

          The Unseelie King must have spent the day redecorating. When Nezumi had snuck away in the early hours of the morning, well before the rest of the court awoke, the entrance to the Unseelie Mountain had been the same on the inside as it was on the outside: a large sitting room with holes in the floorboards, the corpses of dead mice littering the floor.

          Stepping into the room now felt more like taking a few steps into a torture chamber. Black stone walls without windows surrounded him on three sides. Sleek stones had been washed to get rid of the splatters of blood, but Nezumi could still smell them. Battle axes and scalpels and several sets of pliers in a variety of sizes hung from moldy hooks on the walls. Nezumi could see in the dark, but a thin faelight bauble hung in the center of the room. Nezumi didn’t have to squint to see that it was coming from a tiny sprite held prisoner inside a glass bulb.

          The Unseelie King and Nezumi were the only sources of life inside the chamber aside from the sprite and a single gnome trembling in the corner. He’d been badly beaten, and the bones in his cheeks jutted out as he lifted his head to acknowledge Nezumi.

          “You certainly took your time taking care of that nasty business.” The Unseelie King shut the door with a loud bang and sauntered across the room. His black robes swished around his ankles. His tattooed feet were bare. "Did she fight?"

          Nezumi could still see the accusation in the girl's wide eyes. Could smell her blood as it burst from her back. He hadn't wanted to catch her. He'd wanted her to run until she reached the edge of the Seelie Court.

          Nezumi pressed his lips together and bit back the foul taste on his tongue. He walked past the gnome and wandered to the torture display. He’d felt almost all of these tools against his skin at one point or another. Beneath the stench of blood, he smelled human hair and sweat. Fresh sweat. A recent victim. He tasted metal on his tongue. He’d only been out of the house for eight hours. How had the Unseelie King killed someone already?

          “Well, that doesn’t matter much now, does it? You’ve kept me waiting long enough. I’ve got another job for you tonight.” The Unseelie King paused on his way across the torture chamber. “And stop making that face.” He held the goblet out toward Nezumi and brandished the foul contents once more. “It wasn’t a child.”

          Nezumi lowered his head. He hadn’t realized he’d been making a face. He needed to be more careful than that around the Unseelie King. It didn’t matter that it hadn’t been a child. It didn’t matter at all.

          “Sentimental as ever.” The King sighed like a long-suffering lover. “That’s the Seelie in you. Try as I did to beat it out.” He swished his free hand through the air. “In any event, dinner will be ready soon. We’ll discuss business afterward.” Then, humming a wretched lullaby that Nezumi remembered from his childhood, the King left the room.

          Nezumi knew that if he followed the Unseelie King, he would find an army of enslaved gnomes and sprites bustling about in a kitchen that better resembled a slaughterhouse.

          The King might have changed the appearance of the place, but the spirit never changed. The Unseelie Court was nothing if not a prison. The King had never once cooked for himself in the time Nezumi had been in the Dark, and why should he have to? He was the King. He had been the King for well over three centuries.

          And despite the murderous thoughts that surged through Nezumi’s head, the daydreams of mounting the King’s skull on a spike and tossing his body into a pit of vipers, he knew he would never be strong enough to destroy the Unseelie King.

          The gnome shifted against the wall. “You’re—you’re a knight, aren’t you?” His trembling voice tumbled over his lips like gravel beneath a tire. His cheeks had been blackened with fists and wooden clubs. Tears filled the little gnome’s brown eyes. “Please. You must help me. I—I don’t know why I’m here. I didn’t do anything. He just took me from the woods. I was trying to get home to my family!”

          Nezumi ran his finger down the wooden handle of the ax. He’d felt the bite of it on his back three or four years ago. It was difficult to discern _when_ the torture had occurred, only that it had.

          Behind him, the gnome continued to weep. Growing up in the Dark Court, Nezumi understood what horrors awaited the unlucky victims of the Unseelie King’s boredom. More than likely, the gnome had been wandering in the woods and happened upon the borders of the Dark Court—and unfortunately, the King, too.

          “Please,” the gnome begged. "Please help me."

          Nezumi had lost count of the bodies the Unseelie Court consumed. The thousands of tiny Folk who would never go home to their families. He stepped away from the wall of torture instruments. There was no point in counting them anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a long time coming, but I’m finally happy with how the first chapter of _knight of rot and ruin_ turned out.
> 
> Since I originally had the first chapter being much longer, I have most of the second chapter finished. I hope to have it posted by the end of the work week.
> 
> A big thank-you to everyone on tumblr and the No.6 Discord who supported me through this process! I hope you all liked it and look forward to the next chapter!
> 
> Come hang out with me on tumblr!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everybody! After many months, here's chapter two! With the New Year, I am working hard on finishing the stories I begin and working my way through them.
> 
> When I first posted this fic back in June 2019, I was living in Keene, in a horribly abusive living situation with my former roommate. I had no real motivation to get anything finished. My mental health took a horrible downward plunge. Getting through each day was rough because I had to do constant damage-control for my roommate and essentially serve as her "24/7 live-in crisis counselor" while she emotionally and mentally abused me, her other friends, and her now ex-girlfriend.
> 
> Since moving to Florida and cutting all ties with her, I have a new outlook on my life. I'm getting help to work through the mental trauma caused by the seven-year long toxic friendship I just left, as well as pursuing my long-term career goals and getting back into doing the thing I love to do most: write.
> 
> 2020's looking bright, y'all! Let's keep it fabulous!

As frightened as the murder had left him, Shion didn’t run. He walked down the street with his eyes forward. His hands trembled at his sides. He wanted to run. Wanted to scream and rip his hair out at the roots. But if everything seemed calm, the faeries wouldn't suspect him. Faeries preferred targets that reacted.

          Shion needed to keep his panic in check. He wouldn't stop walking until he reached Safu’s house. He wouldn't look anywhere but straight ahead until he was somewhere safe.

          Behind his eyelids, every time he blinked, he could still see her. The faerie girl. The arc of red blood marking the inside of the café window. The creatures that had spilled through the door just as Shion finally managed to make his trembling legs work. Shion didn't want to stay and see what they would do to her corpse. Didn't want to risk the silver-eyed boy coming back.

          There were a few faeries stalking the streets, but they kept away from Shion. On another night, a few might have given chase. He'd been followed down the streets before. Sprites had pulled strands of his hair out, and he'd been forced to quell his urge to wince. Wolves had snapped at his ankles, and Shion had struggled against the instinct to run.

          _This isn't new_. Shion concentrated on the sounds of his breathing. The slap of his sneakers against the pavement. Cars and public buses whizzed by him, tires grinding on the cement. Shion kept to the sidewalks bathed in the soft glow of street lamps. He avoided the alleyways tucked between storefronts. The Folk enjoyed shadows.

          Safu's house sat in the middle of Kronos. Far from the edge of the forests. Due to her own Sight, Safu’s grandmother had picked a spot in town filled with iron. There were Folk all throughout Kronos, but they grew scarcer the farther Shion traveled into the town. Safu's neighborhood had no real vegetation. No trees. Only metal street lamps, metal fences, and concrete streets.

          Not the most beautiful place in Kronos—but the only place aside from the bakery where Shion felt safe.

          The faeries dropped off completely when Shion reached Safu's house. He hurried down the walkway, feeling the tension in his body melting away. How could he feel unhappy in a place like this? Safu’s house was small but inviting. Soft white walls and a deep blue roof rose behind a little white fence. A safe haven. Shion had spent so long behind those warm white walls—it was impossible to imagine a world without them.

          In her earlier years, Safu’s grandmother had been passionate about gardening. Shion could still picture the rows of blue bulbs lining the walkway. Under her tender watch, the flowers had thrived throughout the year. Shion had enjoyed running his fingers over them, feeling the velvety petals brush against his skin. Had enjoyed spending the summers protected from the horrors of the other world.

          He lifted his hand to knock on the door.

          “Shion.” Safu opened the door before Shion’s fist made contact with it. The overhead light on the porch cast shadows over her cheekbones. She smiled at him from over the threshold. “Hello.”

          The smell of delicious stew drifted out from the sitting room. She and her grandmother must have been in the middle of making dinner. Shion let the comforting scent wash over him. Let it chase away the memory of blood.

          “Hi,” Shion murmured.

          Safu was dressed, as she often was, in a thick turtleneck. Her grandmother had made almost all of her clothes. The edges of her short, dark hair were damp, and she smelled of floral soap. She must have just stepped out of the shower. “You arrived just in time,” Safu said. “My grandma’s almost finished with dinner.”

          “That’s—that’s great,” Shion said. He plastered a wobbly smile on his face. “I’m, uh, I’m actually starving, so—yeah.”

          Safu’s smile began to droop at the edges. “Are you all right?” She shot a quick glance to the streets, narrowing her eyes at a small faerie perching near the fence. Shion thought he'd managed to lose them on the way, but there seemed to be a few stragglers.

          “I’m fine.” Shion looked over Safu’s shoulder. He didn’t think the faeries were watching or listening to them—but he didn’t want to risk it. “Can we talk inside?”

          “Of course.” Safu held the door open for him. Shion almost sank with relief as he hurried into the warmth and safety of the foyer.

          Shion loved Safu's house. It was the perfect size for a small family, and plenty big enough for Safu and her grandmother. Safu's parents had left on a trip when she was a little girl and, after a tragic accident, never returned home. Safu's parents had not been Sighted—it typically skipped a generation. Shion's mother couldn't see the Folk hanging around her bakery. Shion had never met his grandparents. Had never been able to pin-point the origin of his Sight.

          The front door opened into a small space where a little beige couch, oak coffee table, and fat-backed television sat. The news was on, the volume cranked all the way down.

          Shion followed Safu around the coffee table. Sounds of a tea kettle whistling in the kitchen echoed out into the sitting room.

          "Grandma just made some tea," Safu said. "Would you like some?"

          "Yes, please."

          Safu gestured to the couch. Shion sank onto it gratefully. Safu's house always smelled of wildflowers. Safu poked her head into the kitchen and said, "Grandma, Shion's here. We’re going to have some tea before dinner. Is that all right?"

          "Of course, dear."

          Safu disappeared into the kitchen for just a moment. When she returned, she had two little cups in her hands. "It's blackberry mint," she said, handing it to Shion. The steam tickled his nose, and the gentle sting of mint leaves eased some of the tension from his shoulders. "Here."

          Shion took the cup with a mumbled _thank-you_.

          Safu sat on the couch beside him, holding her own cup by the handle. Her long, delicate fingers held it with such care and grace that Shion felt strangely out of place in her abode. He tried to shift the cup in his hands to mirror her gentle grip, but held it together when he feared the whole thing would tip over in his hands.

          Safu’s lips twitched as she watched Shion. He averted his eyes and took a sip of his tea. The soft fragrance gave way to a powerful, refreshing taste.

          Here, in the comfort and safety of Safu’s house, Shion could pretend the world outside was a safe and wondrous place. A perfect realm where creatures of darkness didn’t stalk the innocent in the shadows or thrive on destruction.

          “So, what happened?”

          Shion looked over at Safu. “What?”

          “On the porch. You looked terrified. Did something happen?”

          Shion sipped his tea and swallowed the well of terror bubbling up inside him. He inhaled the sharp mint so he wouldn’t remember the stench of the faerie girl’s blood.

          “Did one of them follow you?”

          Shion’s hands trembled, and he lowered the cup onto the coffee table to avoid spilling it. Safu had the Sight. Her grandmother had it. But Safu’s grandmother avoided talk about the Folk these days if she could help it. She grew progressively more exhausted with each day, and Safu had confided in Shion that the stress of worrying about her granddaughter thriving among those things overwhelmed her most days.

          “Is it OK to talk about?” Shion jerked his chin toward the kitchen, where Safu’s grandmother hummed a gentle tune. “Will it upset your grandmother?”

          “Not as long as we’re quiet about it,” Safu promised.

          Shion’s shoulders relaxed.

          “So.” Safu slid closer, until her knee bumped against Shion’s. “Tell me what happened?”

          “I saw him again.” Shion’s heart pounded behind his ribs. “The silver-eyed boy.”

          Safu’s expression darkened.

          Ever since Shion had started seeing the silver-eyed boy— _Nezumi_ , he remembered, the faerie girl’s sharp voice hissing through his mind—skulking around Kronos, Shion and Safu had developed a few theories on who, and what, he could be.

          Safu had never been around when Shion spotted him. At first she suggested that Nezumi might be following Shion, but the fact that Nezumi had never looked in his direction gave Shion hope he wasn’t a target for the Folk. Shion had tried so hard to pretend to be like every other human. Calm and boring. Uninteresting. Average in the way that aggravated the Folk and made them slink off to seek better amusement.

          Coincidence kept bringing Nezumi into Shion’s life. The coffee shop incident had been the first time Shion had ever seen him so close. Had ever heard him speak.

          “Did he try and touch you?” Safu asked. She sounded strange, tenser than normal. Her knuckles had gone white.

          “No,” Shion said, and Safu’s shoulders relaxed. “But… he killed someone.”

          Safu’s teacup struck the ground.

          Shion jumped back as the tea seeped into the carpet. “Oh!” Safu hopped to her feet, an embarrassed red flush splashed across her cheekbones. “I’m sorry! I’ll be right back!”

          She hurried into the kitchen, assured her grandmother that nothing was wrong, and came back into the sitting room with a dishrag. She crouched down and quickly mopped up the spilled tea.

          Shion bent down to pick up the cup, and Safu lifted her head to meet his eyes. Their faces were inches apart, and Safu whispered, “You mean… he killed a person?”

          “Another faerie,” Shion said back. “In the coffee shop.”

          Safu exhaled in relief and dropped her head against the table. “ _Jeez_ , Shion! Lead with that next time! I thought you meant he killed a _human_.”

          She finished cleaning the spilled tea and then returned to sit on the couch. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her skirt. Even in the warmth of her own home, she wore long black socks that came to her knees. “So, he just came into the coffee shop and killed a faerie?”

          “He said the King had sent him,” Shion replied. “I don’t know which one.”

          “He’s court fey?” Safu dropped her head in her hands. “ _Wonderful_.”

          “He didn’t seem… thrilled about having to do it.” Shion remembered the cold calculation on Nezumi’s face, the quick way he’d driven his knife into the girl’s retreating back. Shion had watched Folk rip each other to pieces. He’d been kept awake at night by the agonized screams of smaller fey who had escaped their attackers, only to succumb to their wounds hours later. Nezumi’s attack had been quick and—dare Shion say it—almost merciful.

          “They’re _always_ thrilled about hurting people,” Safu sneered. “Even the pretty ones.”

          Shion’s shoulders shot to his ears. He felt a blush work its way across his face. Since Safu had never laid eyes on the silver-eyed boy, Shion had always described him to her. And most of Shion’s descriptions could easily be mistaken for infatuation. Shion couldn’t help himself. Nezumi was utterly terrifying—but Shion had never seen someone so beautiful and otherworldly in his life. It was difficult to describe him as anything other than _beautiful_ when the mere sight of those gray eyes was enough to take Shion’s breath away.

          “So, we know he’s in the city a lot, and he serves a King.” Safu gave Shion a long, sympathetic look. “Any reason you think a faerie king would be interested in our town?”

          “I don’t know.” Shion folded his hands in his lap and tried to still them. “I’m hoping it’s a king from a small court and not… _one of those_.”

          Safu’s face turned white.

          Shion’s chest ached as if someone had punched him. There were other courts, little ones strewn here and there. Safu’s grandmother had told them that. The Seelie and Unseelie Courts, however, oversaw them all. Shion had no clue about the faerie monarchy or who sat on each throne. He had no intention of ever finding out.

          “Jeez.” Safu reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose. “So we’ve got a pretty silver-eyed boy running around Kronos, and he serves a faerie king. Fabulous. That’s just what we needed.”

          Shion glanced over at the window. Safu’s house was webbed through with iron bars. No Folk would dare come and peek inside. Even so, Shion could picture the creatures lurking just outside her fence: some almost human-looking, and others as far from human as possible. Tall women with bony fingers and teeth like rows and rows of needles. Cherubs with dark blue skin that hung around the park and terrorized young children by yanking their hair out. Tall boys with dark hair and eyes made of quicksilver that murdered people in coffee shops and left without a word.

          “Yeah,” Shion murmured, turning away from the window and shutting the cold world out. “Just what we needed.”

**⁂**

“Almost ready.” The Unseelie King swept back into the torture chamber. He perched on one of the rich wooden benches and patted the one nearest to him. “Come. Sit. We can discuss business while we wait, and—”

          The King drew his hand back as if he’d been bitten. His black eyes flickered.

          “The gnome,” he said urgently. “There was a gnome right there when I left. Where is it?”

          Nezumi sat on the wooden bench on the opposite side of the chamber. He stuffed his hands into the leather pockets of his jacket and glanced at the sprite trapped in the glass. Her eyes were big and dark. She would be harder to break free.

          “The gnome.” The Unseelie King snapped his fingers in Nezumi’s direction. “ _Hello?_ There was a gnome in that corner not ten minutes ago. And now there isn’t.”

          Nezumi set his jaw. A lie might never make its way across his tongue, but he could control his facial expressions. He could deceive with a look.

          “Oh, you don’t want to tell me? That’s fine.” The Unseelie King crossed his bare ankles, and leaned forward in the grotesque mockery of an attentive parent. “That’s just _fine_. We’ll return to it in a moment. For now, our other business. I’ve got a task for you.”

          Without looking away, the King held out his hand and gestured toward the kitchens. A badly-beaten sprite came around the corner and brought him another goblet of blood wine. As the King wrapped his tattooed fingers around the stem, cracks of black mana spiked through the glass, simultaneously shattering it and holding it together stronger than any mortal bonding agent.

          The Unseelie King tipped his head back and downed half the goblet. “Do you remember Rikiga?” He wiped a smear of gorey pulp from the corner of his mouth.

          Nezumi _did_ remember Rikiga—some human who’d become a slave to the Unseelie Court almost a century ago. On a drunken dare, Rikiga had snuck into the Unseelie Court with the sole intention of stealing a jeweled belt right from the sleeping King’s waist. Through mysteries and miracles, he’d made it to the front gates with the jewels in question before the King and his forces subdued him. Impressed rather than furious, the King had made Rikiga an eternal slave to his Court, a servant bound in blood oaths and enchanted words who could never escape or betray them.

          The Unseelie King examined the nails on his other hand. Sometimes he painted them with blood or polish, but today they were the same unmarred black Nezumi saw in his nightmares. “Rikiga’s been procuring some items for me for the upcoming celebration. I want you to retrieve them.”

          Nezumi cocked his head. _Celebration?_ He racked his brain for anything worth celebrating, and then he remembered what time of year it was—and he tasted blood in his mouth.

          The Autumn Equinox.

          How could a whole _year_ have passed already?

          The Unseelie King sat back, smug now that Nezumi seemed uneasy. He held out his free hand and a coil of dark shadows whipped across his palm. “This year’s a bit different from the previous celebrations,” he said. “Our sacrifice this time around must be… better. I’m not looking to placate those unaligned idiots. I’m looking to add them to my forces.”

          The King snapped his fingers, dispelled the shadows, and took another sip from his goblet.

          Nezumi clenched his teeth behind his tight lips. The idea of the solitary fae surrendering their freedom for the revelry of the Unseelie Court was utter madness. A fate worse than death. And faerie death was a tragedy, no matter the occasion. There was no afterlife for the Folk. Those select few who deserved kindness were made into plants and mountains, and those unhappy others were left to wander for all eternity.

          Nezumi’s own mother was gone. She’d suffered at the hands of a drunk, Sighted human who’d believed her to be just a poor girl wandering back to her college dorm. The mortal had attempted to rob her and, upon realizing she had no money, jammed a blade into her stomach and left her to bleed out in the streets.

          Nezumi suspected his mother was one of the few who’d been turned into a tree or a stone and continued to exist somewhere in the world. He’d gone searching for her years ago—before the Seelie Queen had deposited him at the steps of the Unseelie Court as a peace offering.

          The Unseelie Court was overrun with death. Folk died in constant waves. Mortals became victims of boredom, vanishing from Kronos overnight. Nezumi had learned to hide his emotions. To become cold steel. The Unseelie King had found endless entertainment in Nezumi’s childhood tears. The only way to avoid becoming a target had been to stop reacting altogether.

          The Unseelie King’s lips drew back over his sharp teeth in a vicious smile. “Our tribute this year will be spectacular. I’ve got something wonderful planned. I’ll require your assistance to make it perfect, but we’ll worry about that at a later date. For the time being, simply retrieve the objects from Rikiga and bring them to me intact.”

          Nezumi pursed his lips. A spectacular tribute from the Unseelie Court couldn’t be anything good. The Unseelie King did not like to be overshadowed. A sacrifice would be made—but Nezumi wasn’t sure he’d enjoy whatever celebration the King had planned.

          “Now that we’ve handled _that_ business,” the Unseelie King purred, “tell me: what happened to my little guest?”

          The word spilled over his teeth like tainted water.

          Nezumi squared his shoulders. “He left.”

          “Oh, I can see that.” The King set his goblet on the floor. He’d drained its contents, and a smear of blood trailed at the corner of his lips. “And _how_ did he manage to get away? Enlighten me.”

          Nezumi could hear the edge in the King’s voice prickling over his skin like a large spider. The Unseelie King did not appreciate defiance. He was an unpredictable nightmare. Killing the faerie girl had been a whim. She’d held no real threat to the Unseelie Court in her mad dash to the Seelie lands, but the King had ordered her death, all the same. Nezumi suspected the whole ordeal had been more a test of his loyalty than a punishment for her escape.

          The King made a sound in his throat, almost like a growl. Then he rose from his seat, elegant and slow, and smiled at Nezumi as if they were old friends.

          Nezumi’s blood chilled.

          The King crossed the distance between them and loomed over him, that same haunting smile on his face. He reached a hand out and cupped Nezumi’s chin. His skin felt cold as ice, no heartbeat pulsing through his immortal body. He didn’t move. Didn’t need to do anything but stand there and press the tips of his fingers into the slight swell of flesh connecting Nezumi’s head to the rest of his body.

          “It’s fascinating to observe,” the Unseelie King mused. It rumbled through his chest, down his arm and into his hands. “You have blood from both Courts running through you—and yet the Seelie wins out every time.”

          Nezumi knew better than to struggle. His strength was valuable. The primal instinct inside him demanded he throw his hands up and try to shove the dark creature towering before him away. Demanded he fight for his life. And yet the disgusting little part of himself that feared pain warred against that desire.

          _It’s less painful if you don’t struggle_.

          That mantra. Those whispered fragments of advice from courtiers who had taken pity on Nezumi when he wept as a child in the dirt.

          Nezumi sunk his teeth into his lower lip and forced himself still. It might be less painful not to resist—but it would never be easier.

          “I _should_ find this offensive,” the Unseelie King went on. “That your light shines through whatever darkness lives within your spirit. But what could I expect from something as pathetic as you?”

          His grip on Nezumi’s chin tightened, letting the cold of his _mana_ seep in through Nezumi’s skin. A subtle reminder that he held worlds of power in the palm of his hand. That there was a reason he’d held his throne for three centuries.

          “Did you believe you might save him?” Those black eyes bore down on Nezumi, pulling him into a fathomless void. The King’s cool breath puffed over Nezumi’s cheeks as he leaned in. “Did you believe a wretch like you could save _anyone?_ ”

          Nezumi shivered. His body ached as the warmth was stripped from his skin. Dragged through his veins and consumed by the King. The tips of his fingers and toes had begun to go cold.

          “You’re only alive because you continue to amuse me.” Keeping one finger pressed beneath Nezumi’s chin, the Unseelie King forced his head back. “Remember that. The instant you begin to bore me, I’ll snap your neck. You’ll be reduced to nothing—a failed warrior left to die in the filth. The knight of rot and ruin.”

          The King slowly dragged his fingertip across Nezumi’s throat like a blade, and all his strength went with it.

          Nezumi’s legs crumpled beneath him as everything went dark.

          When Nezumi woke hours later, dragged through the Court and deposited in the chamber that served as his bedroom, the Unseelie King was, thankfully, nowhere in sight.

          He coughed. His tongue tasted like mud and silt. Scraps of leaves had taken up residence in his throat and scratched it raw. For all his shadows and horrors, the Unseelie King had once been a creature of the primal forests, and his infernal magic reflected it.

          Nezumi rolled over. Thick blankets—no longer the blood-stained furs the King had first provided him with years ago—had been draped over him. He leaned over the side of the mattress and spat the horrid taste onto the stone floor.

          Lifting his head, Nezumi’s vision swam in and out of focus. The torches set in the cavern walls flickered with blue flames. An eerie glow danced over the few bookshelves, shadows shifting against the smooth edges of the vanity table with the cracked mirror. The Unseelie King had put Nezumi’s head through it at one point or another, either from boredom or spite. It was difficult to remember much of the incident.

          Nezumi eased himself onto his elbows. He’d lost time. Any time spent in the darkness of sleep was a danger. Too many enemies could have slipped into his bedchamber and slit his throat.

          He hated the Unseelie King.

          Hated his darkness and his laughter and the cold abyss of those black eyes.

          Something sat at the foot of Nezumi’s bed. Squinting his eyes, he fought through the haze to get a good look at it. Small and round, no larger than the orange balls humans played with in their concrete parks. The stench of copper struck Nezumi like a wave, and he knew what it was well before the edges settled.

          The gnome’s vacant brown eyes stared at him, eternally accusing. The bruises on his cheeks were more pronounced in the pallor of his bloodless skin. A fat, gray tongue poked from between his parted lips.

          Nezumi dropped back against the mattress. He pressed his face into the crook of his arm and pressed until he saw blue and red stars. What had the Unseelie King done with the rest of the body? Had he thrown it to the wolves, or had he sent it in pieces back to the gnome’s family?

          He could still hear the laughter. Could see the amused glimmer in the Unseelie King’s wretched eyes.

          _Did you believe you might save him?_

          _Did you believe a wretch like you could save anyone?_

          Nezumi drew in a deep, shuddering breath. The air in his bedchamber was cold and uninviting. It had never felt as if it belonged to him. It had never been anything other than a place to wait for more torment.

          The Unseelie Court would never be home. The Unseelie King would never be anything except a monster—but the worst of it was knowing that no matter how much time passed, how many months or years or centuries drifted by, he would always be right about one thing.

          Nezumi couldn't save the girl.

          Nezumi couldn’t save the gnome.

          Nezumi couldn’t save anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you had a wonderful New Year, everyone! With luck, now that I actually have time to write and the motivation to get things done, the next chapter will be up Sunday evening!
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome! I love hearing what y'all think of the chapter! Stay awesome!
> 
> For more awesome No.6 content, come hang out with me on tumblr: **https://glorifiedscapegoat.tumblr.com/**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter three, everyone! Sorry for the brief delay. My grandmother flew in yesterday, and I got talking with her and completely ran out of time to work on getting the chapter posted. But here it is, and I hope y'all enjoy it!
> 
> A bit of a shorter one, but the next one will be notably longer. :3

The trek into Kronos was dark and quiet. Nezumi trudged along the sidewalk, fists shoved in his jacket pockets. He stuck to the sidewalks, listening to the cars whiz by on the street. The stench of iron permeating the nearby city stung his nose and made his eyes water.

          Being in the human world was like living with a perpetual illness. It dimmed his senses just enough for Nezumi to feel uneasy. There was a headache forming above his left eyebrow, stretching through his skull like a plant taking root. It would only get worse the longer he was surrounded by iron.

          He passed the vagrants clustered against the faded stone buildings, a group of pixies with their chattering voices trading old key chains, baseball cards, and other treasures. They ducked their faces when Nezumi stalked by, and only relaxed when he'd left them behind.

          In his time at the Unseelie Court, Nezumi had been to Rikiga's place more often than he'd like. Rikiga's apartment was stationed in the dead center of Kronos: a pseudo way-station where the court Folk could rest during their time in the iron city. A century ago, the Unseelie King had instructed Rikiga to erect his home without the use of iron. The blood pact made it impossible for Rikiga to refuse the King's demand, but Nezumi could tell from the dark looks Rikiga gave him during their brief interactions that if he could find a way to board his house up with iron bars and keep the Folk out, he would do so without hesitation.

          As Nezumi walked, he considered glamouring himself to become visible to the mortals. It was easier than ducking away from their jutting elbows when he passed them on the sidewalk. He supposed he could simply bump into them, but their confusion at the invisible force knocking them aside was more hassle than it was worth. Nezumi wasn't in the mood for more distress tonight.

          As he rounded the corner that led onto Rikiga's street, he almost tripped over a silver spider the size of a small dog, tucked against one of the plastic trash bins. It chattered angrily at him before scuttling into the shadows.

          In order to blend into the mortal realm, Rikiga had constructed an apartment complex made of wood and stone and glass. It was an old building, the oldest in Kronos, and only enchantment and immortal intervention had kept it from being condemned. Four stories tall, with Rikiga's suite residing on the top floor.

          Nezumi eased around a wooden gate circling the property, a faded sign with the words LATCH BILL hanging loosely above the front door. Before his servitude, Rikiga had worked in another town for a newspaper company by the same name. Even a century later, he was nostalgic for the life he'd lost.

          The inside was drafty and dark. From the outside, the whole thing seemed abandoned. Inside, two brownies huddled in the corners around a series of wet newspapers, fast food wrappers, and empty beer bottles. Nezumi suspected, from the disarray of the foyer, that Rikiga hadn't been leaving them offerings for their service. He supposed the brownies could simply leave, if they felt insulted―but brownies were small Folk, with no real protections against the bigger threats lurking just beyond the stone walls. Survival trumped pride, in most cases.

          Nezumi's sharp eyes peered through the darkness, locating the stairwell nestled in the far back. Rikiga had no real tenants aside from the Folk that came and went, and a few human vagrants who sought the abandoned rooms to shoot-up in. Those foolish enough to seek escape inside the Latch building often fell prey to the Folk, who promised a much sweeter release than mortal drugs.

          Nezumi remembered a time when he'd come to Rikiga's apartments on the heels of the Unseelie King. He couldn't recall the reason the King had come himself rather than sending a messenger, but Nezumi had been young and trembling and new to the darker court, obeying the King's every word if only to avoid physical pain.

          After trekking up the three flights of creaking stairs, the King had flopped on Rikiga's plush couch and sighed, "Can't you install some manner of transport in this wretched place?"

          Rikiga, blood surging with alcohol that couldn't kill him anymore and mind reeling with hatred for his captor, had looked the King dead in the face and snapped, "Not my fault you can't fly."

          The room had gone cold. The Unseelie King's broken black wings twitched, the only movement Nezumi had ever seen from them.

          A blood pact and eternal servitude did not prevent a wild tongue.

          The King's anger, however, did.

          As Nezumi lifted his hand to knock on the front door, Rikiga flung it open. His left eye―crafted entirely of glass―shimmered in the torchlight strung along the inner walls and the foyer of his apartment. There was a scar at the corner of Rikiga's eye, near his tear duct, that one could easily miss if they didn't know where to look. But Nezumi had seen it, had seen the King's long fingers dig into the socket and rip the orb out.

          "Wonderful," Rikiga spat. His breath reeked of alcohol, his round face flushed crimson. "He sent _you_."

          Nezumi's lips twitched at the corners. "I've been informed you have something for me."

          "Yeah, yeah." Rikiga turned and let the door swing shut. Nezumi jammed the toe of his boot between it and the wooden frame. He eased it open with his shoulder and marched inside.

          Inside the apartment was no better than outside. A ratty one-bedroom with a tragically small kitchen and a bathroom Nezumi couldn't be dared to go in. The floors were filthy and covered in bottles, several still with droplets of liquid in the bottoms. Nezumi's nose wrinkled at the stench of alcohol striking him in the face. It churned his stomach almost as much as the iron outside the stone walls. Stacks of books and old magazines sat heaped on a large table set in the middle of the open space.

          Rikiga brushed some of the papers aside and unearthed a black knapsack from beneath one of the chairs. He dropped it on the table with a heavy, metallic thump. Nezumi's ears pricked up at the sound.

          "Tell that bastard I got exactly what he asked for," Rikiga sneered. "It wasn't easy."

          "Of course." Nezumi gave him a sharp smile. "Shall I use your _exact_ phrasing, or would you prefer I give him the abridged version?"

          "Fuck you."

          Nezumi crossed into the kitchen. A stench like rotten meat rose from the sink, and Nezumi made a mental note not to investigate. The flies buzzing around the faucet were a good indication that _whatever_ was in there had been there awhile. Nezumi doubted it was edible.

          He inspected the knapsack instead. It was small, but bulky. Nezumi reached out for the handle and gave it an experimental lift. The contents jangled inside, and there was some heft to it Nezumi hadn't been expecting. _Metal, of some kind_. Nezumi inhaled, trying to focus through the scents of Rikiga's apartment, but he couldn't tell what kind of metal. The lack of uncomfortable heat he felt radiating from the fabric assured him the contents were not made of iron.

          Rikiga wandered to the fridge shoved in the far corner. Its white face was smeared in grime and yellowing stains. Little claw marks ran the length of it on the side―and if Nezumi looked down at the linoleum, he could follow their trail back into the kitchen, through the sitting room, and out one of the windows.

          Rikiga snatched a beer from the fridge, popped the top with his bare hands, and tossed it back.

          Nezumi clicked his tongue. "Not even going to offer your guest a drink. What kind of host are you?"

          "You know, you've got some mouth on you."

          "Why, thank you." Nezumi cocked his head and smiled, showing all his teeth. "I'm told it's one of my more charming features."

          Rikiga's knuckles tightened around the bottle. "Nothing about you is charming," he growled. "Nothing about _either of you_ is charming."

          Nezumi's expression hardened. The first time he'd seen Rikiga, years ago, he'd been struck by the lines beneath his eyes and around his mouth. Nezumi, who had never seen a human until that point, had also never seen someone who was _old_. The wrinkles on the faces of _baba yagas_ and mountain hags were different than the lines on Rikiga's countenance―beautiful because they wouldn't last forever.

          _Laugh lines_ , Nezumi had learned. Crinkles on his forehead, around his eyes, and in the corners of his mouth that indicated Rikiga had probably smiled a lot before the Unseelie King knocked the happiness from him. He looked as though he had the potential to be a worthy adversary when it came to battles of wit, but he no longer cared enough to attempt.

          Nezumi knew now that Rikiga wasn't, at least physically, as old as he once believed. Rikiga had been in his early-forties, half through an average human's lifespan, when alcohol and a foolish dare led him to the Unseelie King's throne room. Rikiga could have died that day. By all accounts, Rikiga should have died well over half a century ago. Humans were not intended to live to one-hundred and forty.

          "Might want to be careful with those words, old man," Nezumi said. Without the protection of iron, the walls had ears. Any brownie searching for the King's favor would sell Rikiga out in a heartbeat.

          Rikiga took another deep swig of his drink. The bottle was nearly empty by the time he came up for air.

          "I'm not supposed to be here," Rikiga snarled. His glass eye pinned on Nezumi, his other swimming with a drunken haze. "I turned one-hundred and forty-three last month. I'm a _human being_. I should be cold and dead in the ground."

          Nezumi's jaw twitched. "It's not the most glamorous of abodes, sure. But how many humans can say they've seen the things you have and lived? You could write a book with all you've witnessed in the walls of this building alone. Think about it―no one would believe the stories were true, but it would make for a compelling read. You could get your wealth back, instead of wallowing away in the dirt. You're the one choosing to do nothing with your life."

          "I _had_ a life!" Rikiga hurled the bottle at Nezumi.

          It missed by about ten feet, shattering on the linoleum like a spray of diamonds.

          "I was _happy!_ " Rikiga bellowed. The scarlet color on his cheeks had spread all the way down his throat, dipping into the v-neck of his stained shirt. "And that bastard _ruined it!_ All because I stole a stupid belt!"

          Nezumi arched an eyebrow. He didn't know much of Rikiga's past, but he remembered the King jibbing that Rikiga had traded more money than a human could spend in one lifetime for a shot at a leather belt worth less than the stones beneath their feet. It hadn't been the value of the belt that drove Rikiga to it―it had been the thrill. Rikiga, like so few Sighted humans, hadn't comprehended the risks.

          One night in the human world, Nezumi had witnessed several drunk men playing a game at a park bench. One man held a knife in his hand, stabbing the table between the slots of his splayed fingers. He grew progressively faster, and faster, until he either grew too tired to stop or missed. A pointless danger just to brag. A meaningless test to prove human superiority where the outcome was not worth the risk.

          The Unseelie King never would have let Rikiga escape. Even if he'd sprinted through the Court and into the safety of his iron city, the Unseelie King would have found a way to get his revenge.

          "You know," Nezumi said, hefting the knapsack off the table and tossing it over his shoulder, "this conversation has been an experience, but I've got to be heading back. He doesn't like me staying out late."

          He turned to the door.

          "You think you're different."

          Nezumi stopped.

          "You think I don't hear the stories they tell about you?" A chair screeched against the floor as Rikiga dragged it back and flopped into it. His voice was low and tremulous as he said, "You act like you’re better than him because you’ve set a few of his prisoners loose just to spite him―but you’re _not_. You’re just as sick and fucked up as he is, and someday, I hope someone comes along who makes you realize just how horrible you are."

          Nezumi didn't look back. It wasn't the first time Rikiga had popped off at him. Alcohol controlled much of Rikiga's emotions. It had a way of loosening a man's tongue, making him spill his innermost thoughts. Rikiga had a century's worth of hatred built up in him, and it only took a few beers to damage the floodgates.

          But Nezumi had better things to do than mull over the words of a drunken fool.

          He stepped into the hall and let the door bang shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always welcome! I love hearing what y'all think of the chapter! Stay awesome!
> 
> For more awesome No.6 content, come hang out with me on tumblr: **https://glorifiedscapegoat.tumblr.com/**


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